“It is certainly he; I am sure I am not mistaken.”
The Unknown was crossing the street in a very leisurely, or rather abstracted, manner, evidently absorbed in thought,—or the lack of it,—for extremes meet. With hat in hand and chin pressed upon his breast, he sauntered along with the air of one who is going nowhere, and cares not when he reaches his destination. When he reached the lamp-post at the corner, not over twenty or thirty yards from where we stood, he stopped, hung his hat on the back of his head, and drew from his breast-pocket a pencil and a piece of stiff-looking paper. This he held against the lamp-post, and appeared to write or draw.
We drew back a little from the window.
“What on earth is he going to do?” exclaimed Alice.
“He is doubtless inditing an ode,” said I, “in commemoration of last week’s romantic interview. ‘Lines to a fallen angel,’ perhaps.” This witticism passed unheeded.
“The man’s crazy!” said Alice.
The Unknown had thrown his head back, and, with his eyes nearly closed, was gently tapping the air with the pencil in a kind of rhythm.
“Did you ever!” ejaculated Alice.
“Did you ever!” echoed Lucy.
“Well, I never!” mocked I.